


the rhythm (of the night)

by holtzbabe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, an experiment in voice and POV, i blame the forms and techniques of the short story class i'm in, if you don't like it i won't be offended, let's call this a prose poem because i don't know what else to call it, one too many lectures on POV and voice, this is a departure from my usual, this was written in the middle of the night and is unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 07:58:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10329818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holtzbabe/pseuds/holtzbabe
Summary: The thud of combat boots across the ceiling. The spark of welding. The heavy clang of metal on metal, metal on table, metal on ground. The thump of 80s pop. Sometimes, the singing, off-key and ear-splitting.She taps her foot under her desk to the rhythm not of the night, but of Holtzmann.The winds howl.Do something.





	

 

 

_to the beat of the rhythm of the night_

_dance until the morning light_

*

She knows that she works too much, and she _knows_ she only stays late for Holtzmann. The numbers will always be there; they don’t change, get off the page, run into the night. Spectres force them to stay late on occasion, but most evenings it’s just the numbers, just Holtzmann.

They work on separate floors and every once in a while they’ll cross paths and have a conversation, and she lights up. So does Holtzmann.

She doesn’t know how to express emotions. Neither of them do.

They exist in between, in the hours between when the others leave and they leave, when the night beats against the windows and begs them to say something or go home, because what’s the point of being in between?

She doesn’t hear it calling her.

She hears the sounds of Holtzmann instead. The thud of combat boots across the ceiling. The spark of welding. The heavy clang of metal on metal, metal on table, metal on ground. The thump of 80s pop. Sometimes, the singing, off-key and ear-splitting.

She taps her foot under her desk to the rhythm not of the night, but of Holtzmann.

The winds howl.

_Do something._

*

Holtzmann hovers over her, shakes her. Jostles her awake. She blinks sleep away, runs her fingers over the paper imprints on her face.

She knows she should’ve gone home already; she always knows.

When Holtzmann leans _that way_ against the edge of her desk, and smiles _that way_ , she stays. The papers, set aside. The numbers, unimportant.

Holtzmann’s forearm, Sharpied with a list, important.

Milk, eggs, bread, proton dagger, _dance_.

A grocery list, a life list. Reminders.

The lights flicker. Shine off Holtzmann’s teeth.

She spends a lot of time admiring Holtzmann’s teeth, her lips, her mouth, the little dip between her mouth and her nose. Her philtrum.

Holtzmann boogies away and takes her perfect philtrum with her.

One day she’d like to follow.

She pulls the numbers back and holds them to her chest to let their wisdom bleed into her soul. The paper whispers against her shirt.

 _Never change_.

*

Holtzmann comes up behind her, takes hold of the back of her chair, spins it. She tucks her legs and the world blurs past. Holtzmann, door, desk, Holtzmann, door, desk, Holtzmann. Always Holtzmann. Round and round she turns, but always comes back to Holtzmann.

Holtzmann steadies the chair and takes her by the hand, pulls her to her feet. They spin, and she knows this time Holtzmann is coming along with her.

Dance, Holtzmann’s arm says. They do.

The wind knocks on the doors, the windows, the roof. The lights blink like they’re trying to keep their eyes open. They succumb to their exhaustion, close slowly.

The dark is warm. It smells like Holtzmann, sounds like Holtzmann.

She breathes, dances, listens.

When the lights wake back up, they’re chest to chest, nose to nose.

She drops her hands, steps back, because she knows, she _knows,_ that the dark and the light are too different, too opposite. They can’t exist at the same time.

Holtzmann waits, waits, leaves.

Combat boots on the ceiling.

She goes back to the numbers.

The lights blink.

_Go to sleep._

*

Hands fold across her eyes from behind, the scent of fire steeped in the skin like strong tea. They disappear with a trailing of fingertips.

She turns in the chair. Holtzmann leans on her heels, offers a hand.

She considers it. Considers the numbers. Considers the list scribed on Holtzmann’s forearm.

She takes the hand.

She follows Holtzmann out into the night. The wind squeezes them. The dark is warm.

They run. She doesn’t know where, but they run. Lights flash past them and bounce off Holtzmann’s face in different colours. Pink from the strip club. Yellow from the McDonalds. Aquamarine from the pet store with fish tanks for windows, tropical life swirling in miniature. The fish waltz around each other.

The lights of the street, the lights of the city, they beckon them.

_Dance._

*

They dance in the parking lot of a 24-hour grocery store, lit up orange. Holtzmann spins her, dips her so far her hair dusts the pavement.

Inside, a lazy florescent buzzes. She cradles a gallon of milk inside a shopping cart and Holtzmann runs, hops on the back, rides the length of aisle four. The dairy cases streak past. Her fingers fit through the metal bars of the cart, clench, hold tight.

She knows this is against the rules.

A dozen eggs and a loaf of sourdough join her lap.

The cash register beeps at them. Crickets chirp outside every time the automatic door at the entrance opens.

Holtzmann draws something on her arm with the tip of her index finger.

The cash register dings.

_Go home._

*

They close up the firehouse and gather their things. Holtzmann waits by the door with her paper bag of groceries.

She picks up the papers from her desk, pockets them.

They walk. The city never quiets. Cars honk, alarms sound, sirens wail, people live.

Outside her apartment, she unsheathes the numbers for the proton dagger, offers them to Holtzmann.

Holtzmann lights up.

She stills. The night doesn’t.

Holtzmann leans in. Their lips bump together in the dark, clumsy, the paper bag pressed between them. The cold of the milk seeps through. Her teeth chatter.

Chest to chest. Nose to nose. Philtrum to philtrum.

They dance.

The stars sigh.

 _Finally_.

 

 


End file.
